Thinner than water?

One of the things that's shocked me has been how well Ross is getting along with my family. Since I really only see my extended family every four years or so, it's kinda a given that they'd treat me like a king. Ross has been getting the same treatment. But ionly took my grandfather a week to scare him. After a few too many Royal Challenges, he started challenging Ross on when he'd called his parents last. When Ross said he'd e-mailed them, Grandpa exploded that "voice and e-mail are not the same thing!" Then he made Ross dial them up in front of him.

"I am a father too, you see."
"I know, I uh, know your grandson quite well."

Don't believe the hype. Cleanliness is not next to Godliness.

I'd been putting off writing about this for some time, but since I'm pretty miserable with a stomach flu, Ross is gone, and there's nothing else to do, I guess it's time to write about Salim Chisti and Fatepur Sikri.

Do not believe what the Wikipedia article tells you. These are the worst places on earth.

Because being maintained by the Indian tourism board guarantees a certain minimum level of cleanliness and comfort, we'd been mostly insulated from the worst India had to offer. Unfortunately, these areas were maintained by a religious organization. Consequently, there was cow dung, beggars, peddlers, and filth absolutely everywhere. Ross and I spent the entire goddamn time being terrified.

The Sheikh Salim was supposed to be one of the first advocates of secularism in India, making his memorial's takeover all the more ironic.

We were all a little down after the Salim Chisti debacle, so the rest of the ride passed in mostly silence, except for when my mom's glasses were broken by our collision with a large rock.

Picture Post

And now, in a stunning turn of events, some pictures, because I actually have some time to kill.

From Ross and Pranks in India

Ross looks on while Dad raids the Duty Free Shop minutes after arriving in Delhi.

From Ross and Pranks in India

A toast in my Uncle's house.

From Ross and Pranks in India

We are going to order this eventually. I don't care what Ross says.

From Ross and Pranks in India

"We'll have to make a life here."

From Ross and Pranks in India

Our supposedly government-approved tourguide, who is unabashedly explaining that everything is the Muslims' fault.

From Ross and Pranks in India

White people spotted!

From Ross and Pranks in India

Very 'Zelda.'

From Ross and Pranks in India

The horse ride to the Taj Mahal.

From Ross and Pranks in India

Evening, Taj!

From Ross and Pranks in India

Hey, fancy guy!

From Ross and Pranks in India

The most dangerous game.

From Ross and Pranks in India

Aww.

From Ross and Pranks in India

International Relations.

From Ross and Pranks in India

The Red Fort.

From Ross and Pranks in India

Inside the Red Fort.

From Ross and Pranks in India

Stork Patrol.

Agra 2

In real time, Ross and I are in Kolkata. He only has three days left here, and I only have eight. On the plane, I annoyed Ross by singing my own version of "The 12 days of Christmas:

"On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me:
FIVE GOLDEN RINGS!

Five golden rings, five golden rings, five golden rings,
and Fiiiiiive goooooollllden riiiiings."

I told him it was Sonic's version. He retaliated by reading me his book about the atmospere of Venus. It seemed boring, even for him.

In blog time, it's still two weeks ago in Agra.

When last we left out heroes, they were planning to see the Taj Mahal at sunrise. Somehow, this plan actually happened, and our friendly tourguide met us outside our hotel at 6:15 sharp. Mom and Dad took a rickshaw, so Ross and I navigated a treacherous field of lepers, cow dung, and peddlers all by ourselves.

"We are lost," said Ross after some time.

I agreed. "We'll have to make a life here."

From then on, whenever we'd been momentarily left alone and were sure we'd be stuck in India forever, that was all we'd say. Some of the places we'd be forced to "make a life" at included Rajasthan, the Thar Desert, and a Delhi shopping complex.

We somehow made it to the Taj Mahal. Our guide kept stopping at every pool of water, exclaiming "Friend! Friend! Take picture of reflection!" (He pronounced it refleckson.)

The Taj Mahal's color changes distracted me so much that I almost missed the troop of monkeys stalking tourists. Although I was pleased to finally get some monkey pictures, the story about the unfortunate Indian mayor they murdered kept coming to mind. The animals' hissing didn't help. Ultimately, some unspeakable monkey acts were accidentally witnessed, leading my father to compare them unfavorably to the famously sex-crazed Shah Jahan.

--

It is understandable that Indians would take an interest in Ross. He kind of stands out. But perversely, they seemed to be even more interested in his hat. Once, a strange man grinned broadly at Ross and said, hilariously, "Fancy guy, fancy guy! This is a fancy guy!" to no one in particular. Ross was nonplussed.

At the Taj Mahal, some idiot tourists approached Ross and asked to borrow his hat to take a photo. For the second time in two days, he was thoroughly shaken. Ross, whose politesse is usually more than enough for any situation, had no idea what to say. Thankfully, my mother was there to give them hell.

"Why didn't you just say 'no'?" I demanded.

"I...I didn't know..." he trailed off miserably, and I felt kind of ashamed for asking him.

He seemed to cheer up when he saw a flock of parrots and pigeons feeding on our way out of the monument.

Our next stop was the Lal Killah, or Red Fort, an amazing city-fortification made of red sandstone. We hadn't spent an hour there before some asshole family man who clearly should have known better asked Ross for his hat. My mother and I both said "Absolutely not," and Ross, who had hesitated, looked sheepish.

"You are a full-time job," was all I said.

Later, my guard slipped and some idiot tourists had gotten him alone and snapped a photo or two. I think he secretly enjoyed the attention.

--

Our next stop, if you can believe it, was McDonald's. Not wanting to miss the chance to snap some pictures of Ross in his least-favorite habitat, I was pleased as punch. Indian McDonald's is interesting, and not entirely bad. I will say that the models in their ads are ugly, horrible people who will probably die alone unless someone takes the initiative and rids the world of their blight through homicide. Their strange "Maharaja Mac" burger started Dad on an obnoxious royalty kick wherein he started to behave as though he were the Maharaja. Unfortunately, since he was American, most people treated him that way.

Do not quit while you're behind

oh god oh god so behind on blogging.

Ross is a stupidface, but I think my family likes him more than me. We went shopping today; it's our last day in Delhi.

Still to blog:

Agra -- Day 2
Train to Jaisalmer
Jaisalmer / Mirvana Nature Resort
Camel Riding
The Golden Fortress
Jaipur / The Ancient Observatory
Delhi and the Shopping

On to Kolkata tomorrow; hopefully I'll be able to catch up and upload all of the pictures from my camera. Not optimisic, though. Five hour flight.

Agra

Ross and I are finally back from our weeklong whirlwind tour of Agra, Jaisalmer, and Jaipur. I'll start with Agra.

The trip to Agra was mostly uneventful until our first encounters with India's silent killer - monkeys. I was excited to discover a monkey trainer next to our traffic-besotted vehicle. Mom told me not to take a picture, as the man would then demand payment and it'd be a bad scene. As I ignored it, the monkey's chattering and posing became more and more belligerent. "Go ahead, don't take a picture," it seemed to say, "you foreign devils will still pay in the end."

Although we avoided monkey business, more vendors mobbed the car. Ross was visibly shaken.

We arrived in Agra two hours before the Taj closed to visitors. A horseback carriage ride gave us our first view of drastic urban poverty -- we'd been mostly insulated in progressive Delhi. A man inflicted himself on us, demanding that we hire him as our tourguide. He proved invaluable.

The eastern gate of the Taj Mahal introduced us to another stable of Indian tourism -- countless would-be peddlers, mostly photographers and post card sellers.

Luckily, our guide shielded us from most of them. When we thanked him, he merely replied "Is my job, sirs."

The Taj itself is, well, 'indescribable' might be trite, but it's much safer to leave it at that than attempt to describe it.

Entering the Taj gave us another first -- the necessity of shoe removal. Most monuments or holy sites require it. I've resolved to rethink my shoe stance regarding the Ranch.

Ross didn't have to take off his shoes. You see, foreigners are charged extra to visit Indian monuments, a phenomenon I dimly recalled but one that didn't arouse my ire until it was (unfairly, imho) applied to Ross alone. My family had been doing its best to make Ross feel wlecome, and the fucking Indian government was doing the opposite. Along with Ross' 'foreigner' ticket and my attempts to hide my shame and rage at my ex-country's backwardsness came some plastic shoe covers for Ross.

As I know better than anyone, Ross is the stoic type, and if he felt any embarassment, it wasn't outwardly evident.

My mother is not the stoic type. Inside the Mahal, a large sign clearly prohibited photography, but violations were rampant. My mother screamed "CAN'T. YOU. READ?" at an ugly red-haired Indian who should have known better, interrupting and beflustering our guide.

"People like them are ruining out country," was all she said by means of explanation.

As we returned to our hotel, we were unable to avoid accostment by urchins. We rolled up our windows on the advice of our guide, but they were hard to ignore.

Our first-world guilt was forgotten when Dad announced a beer expedition. We came back with an armful of Indian brands -- Kingfisher, Royal Challenge, and (unfortunately) Hayward 5000. We made the mistake of trying the Hayward 5000 first. Its power level was decidedly under 5000.

The Royal Challenge was less challenging. While all of this imbibing was going on, Ross indulged in a new favorite pastime - forcing me to watch Indian 'talent' competitions. The one he'd picked this time was particularly vile. Children were performing Bollywood routines.

"No offense, Dad," I said, "but your culture has been huffing paint for like, the last twenty years." He endured this provocation without comment until a singularly obnoxious routine began, which consistented of two small children singing "I love you" in all of the Indian languages. Dad told us that my mom had once had three-year-old Pranks perform this with the neighbor's daughter at a talent show.

Ross and I were stunned.

"Oh yes," he said, happily, "we have it on tape."

Delhi, Day 2

We were able to visit four places before our handy-dandy Jet Lag Timer started to screw us.

We got in about fifteen minutes of Indian tv, which was enough. There was an astounding commercial where an incredibly obese man kept on dropping and catching various things until he was defeated by a mosquito. Then his unrealistically attractive wife sprayed "OFF" on him.

This was during "India's Got Talent."

We had a breakfast of Aloo Paratha, chicken sausages, and a potato curry. (I'm getting Mom to remember the names of the foods we eat for William's sake.)

After breakfast, we went to get our money transfered at a kind of seedy money changing station. Small businesses in India are kind of like apartment complexes. Ross picked up a piece of litter and looked for a trash can, and I was horrified.

"YOU NEVER PICK THINGS UP OFF THE GROUND," I shouted.

"But it was dirty. I wanted to throw it away." (Ross must have missed all of the other pieces of trash around. Thankfully.)

"Yes, it was very dirty. So don't touch it."

Ross looked sheepish. "It wasn't THAT dirty..."

"Ross," I said, mostly serious, "there are places where you can get a disease by squatting near the ground."

Ross looked at me for a second, then began to slowly lower himself defiantly. I told him it was his funeral. My nine-year-old cousin heard every word of this conversation but understood very little of it.

--

The first place we went was called Qutab Minar. It's basically a giant minaret constructed by some Muslim ruler. Or so the MAN wants you to think.

Our government appointed tourguide had an agenda. A hilarious one. He basically tried to convince us that all of the (ostensibly) Muslim architecture around us had actually been constructed by Hindhus. The main piece of evidence for this was the lotus imagery, which apparently doesn't occur in Muslim architecture. He told us the Muslim-capitulating governmetn was trying to sweep all of this under the rug, and that "Delhi" was a Sanskrit word for "attacked by Muslims." I looked at my grandfather after this, who had turned off his hearing aid and was staring off into space.

The Qutab Minar complex looked very Arbiter's Grounds. I was delighted.

Next, it was off to a Baha'i temple that was in the shape of a lotus. Ross told me that the Hindhus clearly constructed this as well.

--

One of the coolest things we saw was Humayan's Tomb. Humayan was some rajah who died after his daily prayer by falling down some stairs. Hilariously, his tomb contains incredibly steep inclines in it. Two pigeons flew into the tomb, and Ross was delighted.

In addition to the various ruins, I took a picture of every white person I saw there. Some people took pictures of Ross as well.

--

After Qutab Minar, it was time to go to the President's House. This house was built to entertain heads of state and is blah blah blah some boring stuff you can find out on Wikipedia. The best part of the tour was when my grandfather got belligerent and commented during the middle of the lecture on the state dining room, "Yes, indeed, one gets hungry. When the hell are they going to let us go?"

At this point, Ross, Dad, and I were all jet-lagged so we fell asleep on the way to the restaurant. We awoke to hands down the best food I have ever had in my entire life. And I HATE Indian food.

Today, we're going to see the Taj Mahal!

At the Deli...New Deli! India!

I am writing this with Ross' funky retro writing pencil. It is kept in a special, tiny case. His parents gave it to him, which makes complete sense.

We've learnt a lot so far. We learnt that gin and tonics are free, that my father has a pathological hatred for tempera paint, and even how to share.

Ross' headset doesn't work. I told him this is what Indians call "karma." He looked dour.

(Here Ross insisted I turn on my light. "You'll go blinder," he said.)

I am writing in my travel notebook because I have relinquished my working monitor for Ross, who is watching as many music videos as he can.

"Life is meaningless without a screen," Ross says happily, not even bothering to put on his headphones. The four gin and tonics we've had between the two of us have worn off.

I don't blame him for only watching music videos. There was a neat camera mounted at the front of the plane that doesn't really work anymore, and I already watched two (terrible) movies from their pitiful selection.

(There is a music video that takes place in a heart. GROSS.)

Last night, Ross' mother and stepfather treated us to a delicious dinner, and Ross' father did the same at a swanky brunch joint today.

Dad had similar plans when he met us at the airport, but there was nothing to eat at the terminal except soggy tuna fish sandwiches.

My father is currently displeased with my mother, who insisted he fill his suitcase with at least thirty pounds of gifts that can be bought in India.

His face fell when he saw the meagre food selection, and again at the Duty Free Store. He gave me a look when he saw me eyeing their scotch selection.

"There are deals in India," he whispered, "where you can buy three and get three free. That's three black label bottles for gifts, and one each for me, you, and Ross. Your mother need not find out."

"Dad," I said, "I couldn't turn 21 fast enough for you."

"Your mother doesn't drink. I've been waiting for 21 years."

--

Ross' mother is always interested to know what I plan on doing with my future, but this time she quizzed Ross as well.

"The thing is, Mother, none of us have any idea what we want to do..."

"Well, Pranks seems to have some idea..."

"Pranks is an exception," Ross said with some exasperation, and shot me a look that was equal parts pride and envy.

(This was before I explained that I was applying to jobs, not accepting them, and that I merely wanted to hear the inevitable rejections before I became a hobo.)

--

The emigration process was quick and easy, and way more efficient than American airports. Ross was excited when we were accosted by a street urchin on the way to my uncle's car, and again when we were nearly plowed into by a truck in horrible New Delhi traffic.

We were wined, dined, and put to sleep, but not before getting fitted for suits. Ross chose dark blue with pinstripes, and I chose more of a solid navy color.

Ross is astonishingly patient with my nine-year-old cousin. He played Uno with her, talked with her about New York, and generally spoke to her in an extremely warm and tolerant way. I am a little jealous. She calls him "Ross bhaiya", which is Hindhi for Brother Ross.

Ross is wearing sandals and socks. I took a picture of them surreptitiously.

Today, we're going to the President's house! Pictures to follow.